You Don't Have To Be Mad To Work Here
by Telperion
Summary: There was something familiar about the guy with the rabbit's head. Implied HatterMarch slash.


The green is getting on his nerves. He's pretty sure that's the point of it – the shifting patterns the colour of poison and jealousy are mean to disorientate, to keep prisoners off balance and unfocused. And therefore he knows he should close his eyes, block it out before it drives him mad as…well, as a hatter.

But closing his eyes means there's nothing to distract him from the pain, from the fire in his veins every time the electricity courses through his body. Unsurprisingly, the green is preferable to the pain, even it is slowly sending him round the bend.

Of course, there's nothing he can do to _stop_ the pain, and somehow he doesn't think asking nicely is going to work in this case. He's not even sure that the freak-show standing in front of him would even understand the concept of 'nice'.

And this guy is a freak, even by Wonderland's standards. Body of a human, and the head of a rabbit – what's that about? And it's not even a real rabbit (or should that be hare?). No flesh and blood here – just bright white porcelain, and some kind of mechanical intelligence inside. He can see the lights blinking whenever the head turns, and even in this midst of this fucked up situation, he can't help but wonder how it works.

But curiosity, as they say, killed the cat, and he reminds himself that the _how_ isn't important right now. The fact that it does, and it's holding a pain stick, is enough for the moment.

And yet, and _yet_, something niggles. Something's not quite right here (and that would be apart from the green, and the torture, and the fact that his torturer has a cookie jar for a head). There's something almost, well, _familiar_, about this particular insane individual who's chosen to make his life hell today. He can't help but think they might have met before, although he's _fairly_ sure he'd remember someone who looked this…unique.

He thinks the green might be getting to him.

And then the creature (because 'man' just isn't the right description, somehow), leans close, and says, in that flat, electronic voice, "Hello, Hatter. Long time, no see."

So they _do_ know each other, then. Good know he hasn't completely cracked up. Yet.

Of course, he's still none the wiser as to the guy's identity, although the niggle is stronger now. He feels like he _should_ know, like there's a clue somewhere he's not quite getting.

"Still running your little tea shop?" the rabbit asks. "How _cunning_ you must have thought yourself, playing both sides of the card."

It clicks. Cunning. He only ever had one customer for Cunning. Not that the customer in question ever really needed it. Still, even top-notch assassins must want a boost sometimes.

Mad March.

Well, that explained the new visage. All it had taken was one failure (the only one of March's pre-lapine career), and it was, "Off with his head." The queen's favourite punishment.

Apparently death by decapitation isn't as permanent as it used to be.

It was a fine line Hatter had walked between the Hearts and the Resistance, but he'd always prided himself on walking it well. Except when Mad March was around. The man (and he had been a man back then, albeit a completely nutso one) had an uncanny ability to sense his prey that had made a double-dealer, even one as skilled as Hatter had been, very nervous, even though he was never the prey in question. But one look from those piercing eyes made you feel like all your secrets were on display – it had taken every ounce of flippancy, insouciance, and bravado Hatter possessed not to reveal himself.

But now March doesn't have the eyes any more. Now all there is, is a blank white face, with only the illusion of seeing.

So why does he still feel like he's being stripped bare?

Of course, March had always been well aware of the effect he had – toying with people was his favourite pastime. Well, apart from the killing, obviously. It hadn't mattered to him that not many people liked being the toy.

A memory surfaces of March in the teashop, examining the bottles of brightly coloured liquid, fingers trailing dismissively over Innocence, tapping lightly on Excitement, and finally alighting speculatively on Lust.

"I wonder what this would do, little Hatter, if I were to force your head back and tip it down your throat?"

The words were spoken pleasantly, no hint of threat colouring their tone, and yet Hatter had felt a prickle of ice run down his spine. He'd made it a point to sample all the teas – you had to know what you were selling, after all, because how could you sell it otherwise? And he knew that lust was one of the strongest. People did crazy things under the influence of that particular emotion. Things they would never do if they were sane and rational.

The assassin had looked at him then, gaze just as piercing, and with just a hint of cruel amusement twisting his mouth.

"I wonder, little Hatter," he'd said again. "I wonder."

A swallow, a nervous laugh - _I can play along, isn't this a fun game?_ – and he'd taken refuge in his sales patter. March had left that day with nothing more than his usual pick-me-up, but the fear of what he'd do when he came back had lingered.

But then, not long after that, the queen had had her snit, and Mad March had ceased to be a threat.

Or so Hatter had thought.

And now there's a chair, restraints, pain, the green, and a _fucking rabbit's head_ added to the mix, and really he thinks he might be going crazy, because suddenly a little bit of Lust doesn't seem so bad.

"Tell me where the great library is."

"When is a raven like a writing desk?"

"Where is it, little Hatter?"

"The clockwork's not ticking properly. Maybe crumbs in the butter."

Nonsense words, but if they stop him answering March's question, then that's just fine. Even if he's not sure whether they're a product of his mind, or a product of the green. He thinks maybe a bit of both. Which, upon reflection, says rather a lot about his mind.

"Yeah, I didn't think you'd crack. Pity, I could have had great fun trying."

His interrogator reaches into his sleeve, and for one moment he wonders if Lust is finally going to get its way. And he's surprised to find he's anticipating it as much as fearing it.

_Finally._

But no, it's just a knife. Only a mundane old knife. It would almost be boring if he didn't know where it was going to end up.

But then the blade catches the light, dancing green glimmers flickering across that white, immobile face, and suddenly there is an insight.

Previously, taking on March would have been suicide. A mean right hook was no match for an assassin such as he. One punch versus a whole array of _permanently_ painful techniques. No contest really.

But something is different now.

Now March has a weakness.

Now he can be broken…


End file.
